


Is This the Return to Oz?

by Anonymous



Series: Return to Oz [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Eliot Waugh, POV Quentin Coldwater, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A two-parter! Because they should each get a chapter about... THE BALL.The boys continue to have Big Feelings going into the night of the ball and leading up to their dance.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Return to Oz [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748788
Comments: 44
Kudos: 59
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Quentin

Eliot comes to Quentin’s room as he’s dressing for the ball-- he’s decent, so he drops his wards and admits him.

“I brought you something.” He holds up something soft and grey-- the suede vambraces. “Can I help you? They, uh, they lace up.”

“Thank you.” Quentin nods, holding out his arms. “You really made these?”

“I used a little bit of magic-- turns out it’s a lot more work without a machine, even an ancient one. But… well. I hope they’re all right.”

‘All right’ is underselling it. Quentin turns the left over in his hand, examining the details as Eliot laces him into the right, adjusting his sleeve to sit just so. There’s delicate embroidery in a blue that matches his shirt.

“Is that the Brakebills logo?”

“A little reminder of where we started.” Eliot smiles, double-knotting the bow that keeps the first vambrace in place. There’s something about the way he tugs to test it that makes Quentin’s stomach swoop-- and he no longer has the distraction of looking over Eliot’s handiwork, when he laces the second one into place around Quentin’s left forearm. Nothing to focus on but the way Eliot deftly tugs and tightens until everything is perfect, the fit just snug enough to make Quentin feel _secure_.

“These are beautiful, thank you.”

“And… a little something for your now.” He lifts Quentin’s crown from where it sits on his nightstand, setting it gently in place on his head. 

“That’s final touches.”

“Almost.” Eliot takes hold of his shoulders, positions him and then steps back to look over him. Quentin doesn’t know what he’s looking for-- it’s not the kind of looking over that makes his stomach do all the swooping and twisting and flip-flopping, at least, though he still feels a little lightheaded from being…

Not-- not _cuffed_ , just…

But laced in.

Then Eliot steps forward and removes one of his rings, a delicate filigree of antiqued silver wrapped around an array of pale blue stones.

“El--”

“I think this suits your outfit better than it does mine.” He smiles, and it’s… it’s one of _those_ smiles, warm and intensely personal, drawing Quentin in with the force of a black hole. 

It does, of course. The soft grey of the suede and the blue of the silk, the metal a fine match to his crown and the buttons of his vest, and Eliot chose these fabrics, he would know what would suit it-- more than that, it doesn’t go with what he’s wearing, the black leather pants and the black silk pirate-y shirt, and the burgundy cummerbund or sash or whatever fashion word Eliot has for it, that matches the ascot, all very _something_ but not a hint of light blue anywhere. And Eliot would never host a ball with his accessories out of order.

“You’re the expert.” He shrugs helplessly, and lets Eliot take his hand, and somehow the ring fits, just like it was made to. 

He knows it wasn’t-- the ring is something Eliot had to have found among either the royal treasury or some personal collection of costume jewelry, it can’t have been made for Quentin. But it fits him, and Eliot’s hands are so careful wrapped around his own, warm. Soft, but strong. If he focuses now he can feel it, that sticky-sweet sunset magic, the dormant power that thrums beneath his skin, a part of him. The tingling where it brushes up against something of his own.

“It suits you.”

“I don’t know about that. It… suits this outfit, maybe. It’s-- sparkly.”

“Let yourself sparkle.” He shrugs. “I, um… I have to escort my wife into the ball, so… I should go and be with my wife. But-- You look nice.”

“So do you. Although… you always look nice, so.”

“I thought you and I would close out the ball. Save the last dance for me?”

Quentin nods. “Yeah. You’ll be able to find me. I’ll be glued to my throne most of the night.”

Eliot still has one of Quentin’s hands cupped between his own, he lifts it, presses it a moment and for a moment Quentin thinks he might kiss it, but he doesn’t, just holds it up like he might.

“You look nice.” He repeats, and he takes in every detail of Quentin’s face like he had that night when Quentin walked him to his door. “My king.”

He’s wearing gold eyeliner, and it enhances the gold in his hazel eyes, makes them look more amber. They’re beautiful, Quentin thinks he could spend a lifetime just watching the way the light in them shifts from gold to brown, the flashes of green he can sometimes catch. The emotions, difficult to pin down sometimes, but always running deep… 

“You look… spectacular.” Quentin whispers. “My king.”

“I should…”

“Yeah, yes, your-- your wife, right.” He swallows, pulling away. 

“You’ll enter with Margo. It will look… balanced, that way, and then you can go unnoticed a little while longer while everyone looks at her.”

“That sounds good.”

“Mm, I thought. Q… I-- I’ll see you out there.”

And then Eliot is gone, and Quentin feels lost and empty for a moment in his wake. _Eliot_ , how did things get this far, how did it come to this? Yes, of course Eliot is attractive, Quentin’s not _blind_ , he’d found him unutterably beautiful from the start, he’d seen him reclining on that sign like the prince of all he surveyed and he’d immediately put him in the mental category of boys who were way out of his league. And then they’d become friends, and they… 

He doesn’t even know what to say about it, except that Eliot _is_ his friend. Julia will always be his best friend, there are no betrayals that could erase the bonds between them, but Eliot is damn close, Eliot had been so easy to… Eliot had been so surprisingly open with him, so quick to trust and so empathetic, he’d looked at Quentin and seen things in him, the best and worst things about him, and he’d decided that the whole person Quentin was was worth caring about, and now here they are, and all Quentin wants is Eliot, Eliot flouncing in when he’s reading to demand his attention, Eliot sharing secrets and oaths with him in quiet corners, Eliot’s head in his lap, Eliot’s eyes coaxing him into dancing and Eliot’s magic lifting and supporting him, and Eliot lacing him into the soft decorative vambraces he’d made for him.

He’d _made_ them, and they might not offer any practical armor, but they make Quentin _feel_ armored, they contain him and make him secure, they cover something vulnerable.

They _bind_ him, in a way he doesn’t think either of them were prepared for when he’d asked about the possibility of adding them to his outfit, something neither of them maybe could have seen coming until it was too late. But isn’t that their relationship all over?

He joins the others outside the ball, tries to match Eliot’s kingly grace, offers his arm to Margo-- who rolls her eyes and repositions him, but then gives his hand a warm pat.

“You ready to party, Q?” She whispers. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Aww. Well, mama will take good care of you, honey.” She promises, settling in at his side. _She_ looks regal, but then, she always has. She and Eliot share that. Quentin feels awkward and clumsy at her side even at his best. 

Eliot walks tall ahead of them, stride elegant, Fen on his arm-- she might not look _regal_ , exactly, might not be dressed as well as Margo and might not move as easily, but Quentin figures she looks just as much like a queen as he does a king, or better. 

The ball is… something. It’s a whole lot of something. Quentin lets Margo lead him onto the dance floor to open it. 

“I don’t know what moves Eliot has been teaching you.” She says. “But when you dance with me, I lead.”

“I have no problem with that.” He nods, placing his hands awkwardly at her waist.

“Ugh, what is this, seventh grade?” She grabs his arms and repositions him, one hand on her hip and one arm around her. “But I guess Eliot didn’t teach you how to slow dance like a grown-up.”

“Not, um, not exactly? I mean, not like this...”

“Okay, well just… follow. It’s fucking easy. What _did_ he teach you?”

“Uhh I don’t… know what… He said he was just going to call it a traditional dance of Earth?”

Margo snorts. “Well that could be anything. You and me? We’re sticking to a simple sway.”

“Cool. We’ll sway.”

Past her shoulder he can see Eliot, with Fen. Their eyes meet, they exchange a slight, saddish smile, before a flicker of Eliot’s eyes redirect his attention a moment, down to the hand on Fen’s back. Watching, he could imagine, could almost feel that hand on him. The firm but gentle way he’s guided him before, the span of his hand which Quentin knows intimately now, after their dance lessons, after the times Eliot’s touch has slid up his front to spread wide and possessive across his center. 

He re-settles the arm he has around Margo, into something a little looser, a little more natural. 

“Can we, um… If you’re going to lead, should we…?”

“Yeah, go for it.” She nods, and they shift, her hands moving to his hips, his arms around her shoulders. He leans in a little, his eyes still fixed on Eliot, whose arms he would very much like to be in. who he very much wants his arms around. “Feeling more natural already.”

“Yeah, I thought it might.”

Eliot mouths something, brief and indistinct, Quentin mouths ‘hey’ back and watches his smile, watches the way warmth spreads over his face with it. 

Quentin drifts to the dais when the first dance ends, where their makeshift thrones are set for the ball, drops into his. The real ones are being made, soon to be installed in the throne room. Quentin hasn’t asked about how they would be arranged. With the temporary version, he assumes which seat is his based on the colors of the cushions-- this one matches his shirt, the ones in the center match Eliot’s sash-and-ascot combo and Margo’s gown, the one to Eliot’s other side would be Alice’s in the throne room but Fen is there for now. 

He doesn’t really know how to feel about that, but then, he doesn’t really know how he feels about any part of it. About Alice going home, or about Fen… well, about Fen. Fen, who talks about changing Eliot, who shares his bed-- who fully enjoys the advantages of sharing his bed, in fact, even though she _knows_ he’s not… that he doesn’t… He could hate her for that, if Eliot didn’t have some fondness for her in spite of all that. If he believed Eliot was ever really honest about his feelings, if he believed Eliot set boundaries that Fen disrespected. But he knows Eliot, he knows the real Eliot, too well to believe Fen is wholly to blame. Eliot sees her as a fellow victim making the best of circumstances neither of them chose, and Quentin supposes that’s a very fair way of looking at it. It’s not anyone’s fault that she wound up enthusiastic about the match and he didn’t. But Eliot… he sees her as stuck in the same mess he is and wants to be kind to her, wants not to burden her with the full depth of his feelings about it. He holds back his own discomfort, his own pain, he holds back because he’s a people pleaser at heart, and he feels so much for others even when he tries to pretend he hasn’t got a care in the world, and…

And Quentin’s gotten glimpses beneath the surface, but he knows Eliot tries to mask the worst from him, too. And he doesn’t know how to ask him not to, because it’s not like he wants Eliot to dwell on the negative, it’s just… hard. It’s hard to navigate and he understands too well not wanting to talk about the shit that hurts and the shit that’s always going to keep hurting. If no one can fix it, why worry someone else with the worst parts of your life? He just wishes he could do more.

He only realizes how far into his own private world he’s drifted when Eliot brings him out of it, he feels his presence a moment before a touch to his chin has his head turning, has him looking up to see Eliot standing over him, standing before him, radiant. Quentin feels, unreasonably, that he ought to be kneeling at Eliot’s feet. 

“You’re missing the party.” Eliot murmurs. 

“It’s fine-- I mean, it’s all very… nice.”

Eliot tsks, raising a glass of wine. “I brought you a drink. My king…”

And his eyes travel over Quentin as if he’s tracing the path of a touch he doesn’t dare take, the weight of his gaze such that again, he can almost feel a hand slide over his hair. 

“My king.” Quentin bites his lip, feels too aware of the workings of his lungs, his heart, his stomach. For a long moment he fails to reach for the goblet in Eliot’s hand, pictures too readily Eliot bringing the cup to his lip, tilting it to him. His face heats and he takes it, doesn’t even let his hand linger long on the passing of it.

“I’d better go… host.” Eliot is too image-conscious, too self-possessed, to wring his hands in this moment, but he folds them carefully in front of himself, falls into a gentle frown. “But I’ll see you later. I mean-- later, we’ll tear up that dance floor?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Eliot reaches out again, a motion so sudden that if it were anyone else, Quentin thinks he would flinch. If he didn’t already feel… too much and not enough, he would flinch. Eliot hasn’t cast any literal spell on him yet but he already feels like he’s floating. He hasn’t even had a drink yet, though at least that can be easily remedied now. Eliot touches his cheek, once, brief, before he pulls his hand back once more.

“You look lovely, Q. I-- I just mean that, that’s all.”

_Lovely_ , he says it like-- well, like he means it, like it’s so much more than simply looking _good_. Quentin can’t even respond before he’s gone again, flouncing off to mingle, to ensure everyone is having a good time. 

This, this is what love is. He’s had his brushes with love, been confused about the shape of it or lied to himself to keep it when it didn’t fit, fallen in and out of less mature loves, discovered the importance of the platonic kind and still longed to find romance, but this is _it_. Watching the way Eliot is with people and knowing even from a distance… knowing when he’s telling a joke or recounting a story, knowing when he’s listening to someone he finds interesting and when he makes himself listen attentively to someone he finds boring-- knowing some of it is his being politic, and some of it is that he cares about not bringing down someone’s party vibe enough to be bored for a little bit here and there. 

This is what love is, that he’s learned Eliot’s little tells and his moods and his heart, and that it brings him comfort to watch him in his element, when it is very much not Quentin’s own. That he would attend a hundred balls and suffer through hours of people dancing and people talking, if it would make Eliot happier. That he doesn’t even hate being here like he thought he would, because he gets to watch Eliot.

This is what love is, that he worries about Eliot’s happiness more than he thinks of his own. That he feels _glad_ that it’s Eliot and not himself who’s high king of Fillory, because things feel safe in Eliot’s hands in ways he can’t explain. That he feels guilty for being glad, because of everything Eliot has had to give up. Everything he has to endure, and everything that he endures beyond what he strictly needs to, because he feels some duty to, because he cares so deeply in spite of every reason he might tout for not caring.

And maybe this, too, is what love is-- that Eliot puts so much into caring for a thing that Quentin loves, when it’s caused him nothing but pain, when he’s never embraced responsibility before. Maybe this is what love is, that Eliot lets his guard down with Quentin sometimes and lets him see flashes of that pain. Maybe this is what love is, that Quentin knows about the little boy so sick at the sight of blood even if the blood was only a chicken’s, the boy with the sewing machine in the attic, the boy who wanted to cross over into Technicolor. Maybe this is what love is, that when Quentin asked that boy if he could have vambraces as part of his outfit for this ball, Eliot sewed them himself, and embroidered them, and laced them into place for him. 

He thinks if he asked Eliot for anything, Eliot would find a way to grant it. 

He knows if Eliot asked him for anything, he would give it.


	2. Eliot

“What the hell was that about?” 

“What?” Eliot bristles a little, tries not to. Wishes Margo had not waited until she had him on the dance floor to decide to grill him about… well, he can guess what about. He can’t make a graceful exit until the dance is over, and he’s not great at lying to Margo, or withholding information from Margo.

“You. Touching Q’s _face_.”

“How is that weird? I touch your face.”

“Honey, Q ain’t me. You do remember you’re not allowed to bang him, right?”

“Yes, I’m very aware of the fact.” He sighs. 

“I know it’s been a while since you’ve gotten any dick, but is he really worth a second round? I mean, not that it matters-- believe me, I’ve looked into whether or not you can get a Fillorian anullment on the basis of we never even got to use the fucking blade you got married for, and that was a big fat no, but-- Coldwater?”

“I know I can’t have sex with him and I’ve made my peace with it, we really don’t need to discuss something that’s never going to happen.”

“He must be better at sucking cock than he was at the shit I remember.” She shrugs. “I know what you look like when you’re on the prowl, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying to you, I know I can’t and so I’m not going to. And I think he was, but it’s… fuzzy. That’s not really-- This isn’t about the time we double-teamed our favorite nerd. He just-- he looks good tonight, am I not allowed to appreciate when a friend is kind of hot?”

“We looking at the same boy?” Margo fixes him with a Look. “You really have gone too long without dick.”

“Yeah, well.”

“What? I’m sympathetic!”

“I don’t need your sympathy anymore, the Eliot-needs-sympathy ship has sailed, all right? And I don’t-- this isn’t about dick and it isn’t even about whether or not Q is hot, it’s… There’s just a lot of other shit, okay? And it’s neither the time nor the place.”

“You’re such a drama queen. Look, I’m sorry I insulted your taste in men, or… whatever this is. And I’m sorry I haven’t found any kind of a divorce clause, but I’m still looking, okay? I’m still asking around. And if anyone knows _anything_ about how to un-wife you, I’m gonna hear about it, and I’m gonna _get_ you un-wifed. El?” She pulls back, reaching up to touch his cheek-- he doesn’t point out that the face-touching doesn’t have to be weird, it feels too late for that, and her expression is too serious. “I promise, okay?”

“Thank you.” He mirrors the gesture, leans forward and kisses her forehead. “Whatever happens, or doesn’t happen… you’re my number one girl. Wife or no wife.”

“Bitch, you don’t have to tell me.” She says, looks off to the side and blinks rapidly. “You’re so fucking lucky I didn’t get stranded in Fillory without my waterproof mascara, I can’t let people know I have emotions.”

“Love you, too, Bambi.” He laughs. 

“Go dance with your wife.” 

As little as he wants to, it’s been long enough since he has that he ought to. It can’t look like he’s avoiding her, and she’s a good dance partner, and if it makes her happy then… well, then it’s not the hardest way to make her happy. 

She’s distant and distracted when he asks her, but she still takes his hand, still dances. 

“Is something bothering you? Fen?”

“No.” She shakes her head, pastes on a bright smile, but he knows the act too well, he’s pasted on smiles enough of his own. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think it would help.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “Let’s just dance.”

For a little while, it’s all they do, but she feels tense and it makes him feel tense, and maybe whatever’s the matter is beyond his ability to fix, but he could fix a whole hell of a lot, given the opportunity-- couldn’t he? At the very least, he could listen to her-- that’s the least he could do as a husband, let alone as a king or a magician.

“Fen… if there’s anything I can do… I mean, if there’s anything I can do…”

“I don’t think you can. But neither can I, for you, so… here we are. Married. And there are things about each other we just have to learn to accept.”

“Would you be happier if we had separate bedrooms?” He asks. Judging by the way she laughs, too much to hope for.

“No. I know I’m not your type--”

“Yeah, ‘type’ is… that’s putting it mildly, but-- um…”

“And you were a stranger, so that shouldn’t even matter to me, right?”

“It’s okay, if I’m not what you hoped for.” He says gently. “Look, I know I’m… all this, but-- You’re allowed to be disappointed.”

She lifts her head to give him a smile that feels a little more real. “It’s not that, really. You’re a good man-- anyone would be lucky to-- I just… I’m having a weird night. And… well, either it’s nothing, or we’ll talk soon, about… Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Okay, well… talk soon, then.” He lets her go, as the music ends.

“Eliot… your friend is… lucky. To have your heart. That’s all.”

“What, Bambi? Oh, that’s not-- we aren’t--” He looks back towards where he thinks Margo is. There’s no way Fen overheard him calling her his number one girl, wife or no wife, but it could still have… he doesn’t know, hurt her feelings somehow to see them together, if she’d seen the easy way he’d kissed her forehead, his relative comfort level with her. But Fen just laughs again, soft and bitter, and then she’s gone in the crowd.

Well. They’ll talk later. 

He’s never felt a party wear on so long as this one does, waiting to be able to close it out with Quentin, their planned grand finale. It seems like ages pass before he can ascend the dais to announce the last dance of the night. Before he can extend a hand to Quentin, and to be able to reach out to him now is like balm soothing a physical ache, an itch deep below the skin. He’s already shed his ascot, and it does not escape his notice, when Quentin’s eyes follow his bared throat, down to the slightly more open than necessary vee of his shirt.

“Wait, up here?” Quentin whispers, but his hand slides into Eliot’s just the same.

“We have enough space.” He shrugs. 

“Yeah, but it’s-- we’ve barely practiced and I’m bad at the turns, and I don’t think the band knows ‘Hungry Eyes’, and I don’t know if I can keep time to anything they do know, and this is like being up on stage, isn’t it? I just don’t want to fuck it up.”

“Do you trust me?”

Quentin nods. Eliot strikes up the music-- not the band, but his phone, magically amplified. Maybe it’s a little frivolous, considering their whole wellspring problem, but, well… Quentin trusts him with this, and he trusts Quentin with that, and in the meantime, it makes him smile.

They may not have gotten much practice in, given the demands of their schedules, but it’s enough. He’s only sorry… he’s only sorry he couldn’t announce them the way he’d like, couldn’t talk about Quentin the way he wants to, he can’t ever talk about Quentin the way he should, the way Quentin deserves to be talked about, by someone who…

Someone who appreciates all the things that Quentin is. Someone who’s been made a better man by knowing him, by loving him. Maybe he hasn’t loved him for very long, in the grand scheme of things, but should it matter? What matters is the marks they leave on each other.

They’ve had forty first meetings. How many times has Eliot fallen in love? Has he ever been able to confess it?

He pulls Quentin close this time, into the circle of his arms, dips him and brings him back up and meets his eyes, sees them shining. For all his nerves, he loves it, it’s clear he’s having the time of his life, and Eliot never wants to stop. If this is all they get, he never wants to give this up. If they can never even kiss, he wants the intimacy of the dance. 

How many loops did they kiss in? He’s only sorry he can’t remember the kisses they did have with any real clarity. He remembers that it happened, but not who started it, not the details of it, not how many times, how long, not the feel and the taste of him, not so well he could call it to mind now, though he tries, every night he tries. 

It half feels like it must have happened to someone else, someone luckier than Eliot has ever been. It had to have been a thing that happened to the man who led the charmed life Eliot only ever pretended at, he must have held Quentin close and kissed him, must have the full sense memory of his lips and his body. How many Eliots have known Quentin so well?

In how many loops did they fuck and in how many loops did they make love?

Maybe he only tortures himself wondering, when this is the life they have, the life they’ll lead. They succeeded and even if they hadn’t they were on their very last chance. But still, he’d like to know. He’d like to know if he’s ever been free to speak the words, or if he never got far enough. If certain death ever made him brave enough to say it, or if he never realized in time before.

There’s a crowd and some people are probably making use of the dance floor but some of them must be watching. Eliot had always imagined himself feeding off the fervor of an audience, when he dreamed himself in this position, but now that he’s here, he only has eyes for Quentin, can only focus on Quentin. On the suede beneath his fingertips as he trails a hand down his side, on how well they move together.

On one of the twirls, Quentin falters, but it’s nothing they can’t cover, and they _do_ move well together. He never let them get quite this close when they’d practiced, as close as he gets now when Quentin spins away and then back into his arms, his chest heaving right against Quentin’s, his hand at the small of Quentin’s back, and Quentin’s lips…

Quentin’s lips so close, and yet a lifetime away. He has to guide him into another twirl just to move him out of the range of such easy temptation. 

“Ready for a big finish?” He asks, as he and Quentin fall back into the familiar, easy steps, the basics of it. 

“I don’t know.” Quentin says, but the light in his eyes says he wants to be.

“Don’t worry, baby, I can vamp while you catch your breath and work the nerve up. All you have to do is trust me to catch you. You trust me?”

Quentin shivers, nods. The basics get a little closer than they used to. For a beat or two the dance is a lot less feet and a lot more hips, before he spins out again just to keep from _grinding_ on the man. He might not have thought this through enough, okay, that’s fair. He might not have taken into consideration all the things he could feel and how strong, how much _more_ it could get, but he’s not about to let that stop him. Not now.

He motions for the floor before him to clear, hops down from the dais and puts a good run of distance between them while keeping time to the music, while preparing his spell, and there’s a crowd all around them but still there’s nothing in the world but Quentin, Quentin running to him, leaping and being lifted by magic he’d described as feeling like a sunset and a softness, magic he’d called sweet on his tongue.

Eliot keeps his hands on Quentin’s waist, feels as if he could fall upwards into his eyes. Feels as if he could stay in this moment forever, if only he could stay in this moment forever.

He guides him to touch back down, slow, Quentin’s arms fall around his neck as he does, Quentin laughing and leaning into him. Maybe it’s applause thundering around them or maybe it’s his blood thundering in his ears, the beating of his own heart. Quentin’s. 

“Thank you.” Eliot says, sways with him to the music as it fades out slowly. 

“Hm?”

“For the dance. And… for the distraction. From… you know. All the shitty parts of life. They don’t matter when we’re-- Nothing does.”

“El…”

“So I wanted to thank you.” He smiles. It’s tinged with all the regrets he has for the things that can never be theirs, but it isn’t pasted on, it isn’t fake. It’s as real as he thinks he’s ever been.

“You’re welcome.” Quentin nods, and he’s slow to pull back. 

They part, they have to, they would always have to eventually. It’s Margo who reaches him first, as Quentin slips away, slips out of the ball. She closes a hand around his arm just tight enough to remind him that she could still squeeze tighter if he didn’t think very carefully about his answers.

“What the hell, Waugh?” She asks. Simple. Straightforward.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says. She pinches him. “Ow!”

“I didn’t know the traditional dances of Earth were so fucking _horny_.” She hisses. 

“All the good ones are.”

“Remember when we talked about how you could not bang Coldwater? What part of that talk sounded to you like you should hump him on the dance floor? And don’t get pedantic with me, that’s the last refuge of a pathetic nerd who knows he has no real argument. Is that how all your dance lessons went?”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t wanna know.” She holds up a hand. “Just answer me this-- is Q just the last boy to suck your dick and you’re going slightly crazy from the fucking enforced heterosexuality, or is this like a feelings thing?”

“Bambi, this is one thousand percent a feelings thing.” Eliot looks towards the door. “This is a disturbing new level of feelings. And things.”

“Okay, well… hush, little baby, ‘cause mama’s gonna get you that divorce. Just don’t do anything stupid before then. I mean, anything more stupid than throwing a ball just so you could seduce one of your friends with dance moves you cribbed from Swayze.”

“Traditional dance of Earth.”

“It’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen you have sex with a dude.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, go on.” She rolls her eyes and sends him off with a pat, but as much as he’d like to chase Quentin down, he has a sacred duty as host, he can’t bail until all the guests go home.

When he’s seen the last of them off, he and Fen head for their room-- he lets her take his hand, their arms swinging loosely between them. He only pulls away when they reach that corridor and he spots Quentin pacing at their door. 

“Q?” He jogs forward. “Um-- hey.”

“Hey.” Quentin looks up, all nervous energy and twitchy smile. 

“Did you need something?”

“Um…” His gaze flickers past Eliot’s shoulder. “I don’t know if it’s a good time, or-- if tomorrow is better.”

“Oh, please, I’m not going to be up before noon after this. And I can always make time for you.” He restrains himself from reaching out, from toying with Quentin’s hair the way he’d like, the way it feels so natural to. He turns back to Fen. “Go on to bed, I’ll catch up.”

“Don’t be long.” She says, gives him a look he can’t quite read. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Whenever you wake up.”

He kisses her forehead absently, waits for her to go in before he feels like he can relax, before he and Quentin let out a breath together. 

So this is maybe definitely what an affair is like. 

“What did you need?” He asks, and now he does reach out, runs his hand over Quentin’s arm. 

“I just came to give you your ring back, really.”

“Keep it.” Eliot shakes his head, closes a hand over Quentin’s before he can take the ring off. “For… formal events, or-- Keep it. To remember our glorious performance by.”

“El, I-- Thank you. Not that I need something to help me remember tonight… but I’ll take good care of it.”

“I know you will. Anything else, while I have you?” And maybe he’s desperate for there to be, because he doesn’t want to go in to bed, in to his wife, doesn’t want her to be awake when he does, doesn’t want her to want things from him. 

“Maybe you could… unlace me?” Quentin holds out an arm, Quentin looks up through his lashes, Quentin is… 

Does he know all the things he does to him? Does he know how perfect he’d be, how perfect they would…? How much does he know, because he can’t be clueless.

“Of course.” Eliot whispers, cups one hand around Quentin’s as he tugs at the bow securing the laces in place. A series of careful tugs to loosen without the leather cord slipping free, enough for Quentin to slip out of, and then they switch sides.

This time, he doesn’t let go of Quentin’s hand. The vambrace slides down, and so does the sleeve, as Eliot keeps hold of Quentin’s left hand, the hand with the ring. He should say something, except there’s nothing he can say. There’s nothing either of them can say.

He sees the scar, before he can make himself release Quentin’s hand. A thin white line that doesn’t cut all the way across the wrist, but still makes his heart stutter. He pulls Quentin’s hand up, doesn’t dare kiss his wrist, but presses it to his cheek and holds him there a long moment.

“That’s-- It’s old.” Quentin says lamely.

“Does it ever still bother you?”

“No. It’s nothing. If it’s covered up, I don’t even think about it.”

“I can lace you back in, any time you need to cover it.” Eliot offers, and he knows he shouldn’t. He knows the charge between them, and all the things they can’t have. He’s just so desperate to offer _something_.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Q… any time you need me.”

“I don’t get to need you.”

“We swore something to each other. Any time you need me, say the word and I am--” _Yours_ , he doesn’t say, even though it’s true enough, too true. “I am at your disposal.”

“It doesn’t still bother me.” His other hand comes up to cup Eliot’s other cheek. “And… same deal. If you ever need me.”

“I always need you.” He shrugs. Quentin taps his forehead and gives him an apologetic smile, before pulling away. Eliot knows what he means. “My king.”

“My king.” Quentin nods. “Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

“I don’t feel very sleepy. I could linger here… ask you for another dance.”

“I’m going to go to bed. But… ask me another time.” 

“Sweet dreams, then.”

“And you.”

He watches Quentin go, and he lingers in the hallway just the same, all by himself.


End file.
